


Poor Precedents

by freckledFirebrand



Category: Project Wingman (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Gen, MAJOR SPOILER WARNING, ending expansion, fem!Monarch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:02:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28804761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledFirebrand/pseuds/freckledFirebrand
Summary: Cascadia is in ruins. The war has been won. The deal will be honored. Winning the final battle over Presidia, however, doesn't mean Monarch is out of the heat yet.
Relationships: Comic/Dip (Project Wingman), Monarch/Prez (Project Wingman)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	1. Presidia

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Thanks for stopping in! This is a bit heavier than the past two fics for Project Wingman that I've written, so if you'd like something more wholesome right off the bat, I can recommend either my own fic that I posted at the same time as this one, Self-Proclaimed King, as well as Beacon, by AshedAshley (it's really cute don't sue me). In that same vein, this is an as-vague-as-possible continuation of my first two Project Wingman fics, but honestly, you don't need to have read either of them for this to make sense besides the fact that, well, Monarch's a girl here (sue me). With that mess out of the way, enjoy!

She hadn’t expected it to have been so easy to retake Presidia, but… here they were.

Even if the call for the ceasefire interrupted what would’ve been easy money, Monarch couldn’t complain. She’d tuned out a fair bit of the work; after the attack on the battlegroup almost ended in a suicide mission had Kaiser not arrived, this felt like a walk in the park, as though Monarch was just able to phone it in. Still, she pulled the throttle back, and gazed out at the city as voice after voice filled the comms, paying attention to none of them. Pulling the plane into a shallow climb, Monarch pointed the nose above the clouds and began to cruise northbound. If she had to guess, they wouldn’t be staying for much longer, and she wasn’t one for peace conferences – she’d much rather just get back to that grovel in the highway, get her things, and just figure out where Sicario was going from here. The F/S-15 prototype she was flying had just recently gotten the WSO spot in the back operational once more, and through both the comms and, somehow, over the roar of the jets, Monarch heard Prez let out a sigh of relief.

Comms, finally, grew silent enough for Monarch to hear herself think, until some jackass started to laugh. She couldn’t blame them, really, but that didn’t mean it didn’t annoy her still. They were pushing through the cloud cover now –

Wait, there were six cruise missiles heading towards Presidia, diving back down towards the city. “Prez, brace,” was all Monarch said before she whipped the plane back around, trying to intercept. Other people were screaming now in comms about being targeted by something. The only word echoing through Monarch’s mind now was a very, very simple “fuck”. Was she just too high to have been targeted by whoever this was? Was this deliberate.

When Monarch was back below the clouds, she saw the six missiles detonate, caking Presidia in that sickening orange glow she still remembered far too well from their operation in Prospero just a few months ago. “No, no no no,” Monarch weakly muttered.

“Oh god, oh god, oh please! Not now! Not after all this! Please, god!” Prez practically screamed from behind her, before collecting herself. Without a word, it seemed like both of them recognized the laughter now that it was echoing all by itself, without another IFF present as the Cordium interfered with most of the sensors. Even without sensors, Monarch could make out the sole plane still standing that wasn’t them – it was obviously a prototype, and it was flying right at them. “I don't know if I can do this, Monarch... I'm braced...” Prez mumbled softly, taking in a deep breath.

Monarch slammed the throttle forwards. She didn’t have to think about the rest of what was about to happen; she was already tuning out the madman’s ravings into her radio. She was so, so tempted to turn it off, but she couldn’t: not if anyone else was still alive and needed to reach her. There was no point in calling out her missile launches, so she didn’t. It’d be a waste of time, and time wasn’t something she had. Her rotary cannon roared, but she heard a voice echo through her skull – but it wasn’t rambling.

The lock warning blared in Monarch’s ears as she deactivated her AOA limiter, thrust vectoring right as a micromissile soared by. “Ah, god,” Prez mumbled as flare was dropped to confuse the rest, “Monarch…”

Quickly, Monarch tried to level the plane, but the second she did so, she saw a railgun shot soar overhead and had to flick the plane into another maneuver. “I can’t keep up, I can’t…”

They were once more in level flight, but Monarch heard Prez’s head slump into her seat over her radio, alongside an extremely weak “I’m sorry.”

No words came out of Monarch’s mouth as she yanked the stick back, but for once, Monarch felt fear. Not at death. She’d been ready for that for years to come. She thumbed the weapon selector over once, and she threw the plane into a reversal. Tone came not a moment too soon, and the remainder of what radar-guided missiles Monarch fired out. Without Prez, she didn’t know if they connected, but she could hear at least one report – as she flew into a ball of what seemed to be Cordium static. The controls locked up in the mixture of heat and electricity, but she wasn’t out yet. The now-ruins of Presidia gave Monarch a chance to duck out, to run.

But she knew that bastard would follow. Her controls were still barely responsive, and it felt like the system was now operating on pure hydraulics. Every maneuver she made would be hindered. She was already hindered. For all she knew, Prez was dead now, and though every prayer in Monarch’s body hoped it was just g-LOC, that could be fatal if Monarch wasn’t quick enough. She tried to steady herself. Monarch tried.

When she ducked back above the cover of the skyscrapers of the city she might have possibly gone on to call her home, she was on that bastard’s tail. Every single one of remaining infrared missiles went after its Cordium-powered engine, and through some luck, one managed to connect as the bastard pulled into a maneuver. The prototype was smoking bad now, Monarch saw as it pulled behind her. Some of the maneuverability was coming back, but it wasn’t enough.

With a deep breath, Monarch pulled her plane into as steep of a climb as she could, ignoring the disconcerting sound of Prez behind her. Every control was stiff, slowly loosening, but not fast enough. She wasn’t fast enough. As she scanned behind her, tracking the smoking prototype, she saw it coming right at her.

He was going to joust her. He’d truly lost his mind.

With a deep breath in, Monarch had one opening. She slammed the throttle back, as it seemed the crazed Peacekeeper was doing as well. She saw the orange glow as the plane’s mounted railgun charged, and Monarch grimly grinned. She closed the throttle and slammed open the airbrakes, reducing what little airspeed she had, and stalling the plane, dropping right as she saw the orange, Cordium-lace round slam through where her cockpit had been five seconds before. Disabling the AOA limiter once more as she jammed the throttle wide open, the engines providing just enough power and maneuverability that the stiff hydraulics meant nothing. The rotary cannon opened up once more, and she saw the prototype begin to tumble out of the sky as her own craft leveled out. He was saying something, some last words.

They were last words Monarch didn’t care to hear, Crimson One’s final wasted breaths, as the afterburner behind her roared. Now was no time to go back to base, it was time to find the nearest airfield, the nearest highway, the nearest pretty looking patch of dirt, and get Prez out of that backseat. Monarch had no clue how long that dogfight had lasted. Everything felt like a blur. It could’ve been a minute; it could’ve been thirty. She wished she’d just blanked it out, like the rest of the day had been, but just like Prospero, every second was seared into her mind once more.

As an explosion rocked out behind her – the Cordium in that airframe detonating, most likely – another voice echoed through her radio.

Galaxy’s.

“ALCON! All survivors! A safe area…” Monarch started to tune out the rest, only returning back in when she knew Galaxy was finished. Not caring who heard her, nor which frequency she was on, she spoke.

“Galaxy, where is the nearest airbase? I have wounded aboard.” Monarch’s words were monotone, spoken with a sharp, harsh tone.

“Christ, Monarch, is that you? Are you –”

Monarch’s next round of words had a venom laced in her weak voice. “Galaxy, I need to know where the fuck that airbase is before my WSO dies.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and Monarch was just barely able to stem the tears that were trying to leak from her eyes. Not now, not when she had to maintain control.

Silence. Then, “Nearest outside of the city is… Johnston AFB. Bearing forty-five from the heart of Presidia, about one-forty klicks out. Last reports showed it as controlled by the Federation,” Galaxy reported back, his tone straightforward and composed, despite bearing a strange softness.

“Thank you,” Monarch replied.

“I’ve got you on Sicario’s frequency real quick, Monarch. There’s currently a rescue beacon that links up to Comic’s ID broadcasting,” Galaxy added a moment later. “We haven’t heard anything from Diplomat yet, though, and Kaiser’s status is unclear. If I get in touch with Stardust, I’ll send him your way. To make sure you can collect what we’re owed. I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

To that, Monarch didn’t reply. She just set her course and kept the throttle as open as she could without running out of fuel, before adjusting her radio to be what she remembered the Federation emergency frequency to be and hoping that they hadn’t changed it during the war, and she began to speak once more. “Johnston Air Force Base, this is Hitman One. I am coming in for a landing with wounded on board. We need emergency medical treatment once we land.”

There was no response directed at Monarch, but over the radio, Monarch hear their panic. A nervous voice spoke back. “Er, Hitman One, we’re not seeing any callsigns—”

“I am with Sicario. I need to land there. I do not _care_ what you do to me once I land, but my WSO is unconscious and needs medical treatment.” For all of the fear rampaging through Monarch’s mind, and for how rarely she used these damned radios, she was keeping herself surprisingly composed. There was an argument on the other side of the radio that she could only hear half of, and as much as she wanted to tune it out, now wasn’t the time.

“Look, do _you_ know what happened in Presidia? I doubt it was the mercs, or the CIF. They’re already trying to gather survivors, if those scrambled transmissions meant anything. This is our only chance to find out. We should just – Hitman One, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see you when you touch down.”

It seemed the ATC got enough sense to mute themselves this time.

Monarch didn’t notice the time pass between the brief talk and when she set her battle-scarred F/S-15 down on the tarmac. The second the wheels stopped squealing, Monarch became aware of the two vehicles roaring up to meet her. One bore a red cross on it; the other bore at least seven soldiers.

With no care for procedure nor safety, Monarch killed the engines and, upon discovering the hatch seemed to be jammed in place, jettisoned it. Then, she sat, with her hands in the air, and she waited. Thankfully, it was the medics who came first, rushing up to the plane. The rest Monarch started to tune out the noise again as she just stared forward through the empty HUD until the soldiers came for her.

* * *

They took her flight suit from her, but Monarch should have expected that. She did expect the handcuffs and the cell, and the fact that everything hurt. Somehow, though, being stripped of her flight suit and given a Federation uniform to wear as a prisoner outfit – they must’ve run out of traditional clothes, Monarch realized, or were so disorganized they didn’t know where they were – was what made Monarch feel at her weakest. It was thoroughly night now, but Monarch paid that little mind. She hadn’t paid the sun any mind when it was dipping below the horizon when she landed, she wasn’t going to pay it any mind now that it was gone.

Her mind, instead, was much, much more worried about Prez. Every so often, a guard came by – some of them seemed more interested in seeing the “crowned mercenary” more than doing their job – and Monarch tried to ask, but most ignored her. One almost squeaked out a reply, before stammering that he wasn’t supposed to say anything and running off.

She must have passed out, because she awoke to the sound of her cell opening. She was staring down an older man, with balding grey hair and a weary look and a chair carried behind him. He was trying a weak smile as he sat down the chair in front of Monarch, which was more than Monarch could say about herself at least. Before Monarch could even shoot a word out, he spoke: “She’s alive, but we don’t know her state. Let’s get that out of the way first, merc. Now, Hitman One of Sicario, the ‘crowned mercenary’. Do you have a name?”

“…Monarch.”

With a sigh, the man shook his head and rolled his eyes. “A tacname works, I suppose. You _are_ aware of the crimes we could charge you with would give me credit to shoot you, here and now, correct?”

“…yet you haven’t. But… yes,” Monarch answered. Her voice was weak in her throat once more.

“Part of that is because I’m not sure if executing you would count as a violation of the cease-fire, part of that is my own intrigue, and part of that is… respect for trying to save your WSO’s life, I suppose. Based off of the shape of your plane, I assume you were involved in whatever went down in Presidia?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful,” the man replied not even a second after Monarch’s yes slipped out. Shifting forward in the chair, he leaned in and flatly said, “What the _hell_ happened over there? One second, we had the ceasefire announced on the radio and had our last squadron stand down – if I had to imagine, _you_ likely killed the rest – and the next we’re getting reports of a massive explosion devastating Presidia, and all of our comms are down.”

“Just like after Prospero.” It was a barely audible statement, a mumble that Monarch accidentally said aloud as she stared at the ground.

“Just like after Prospero,” the commander echoed. “So, what was it?”

“That bastard. The Peacekeeper,” Monarch managed to spit out, her voice – and all of the vileness in it – coming back in full force.

“More specific, please.”

“Crimson One.”

“…You’re going to have to apologize me if I don’t believe that. You wish to tell me that the Federation’s top ace, a Cascadian himself, took to deploying Cordium weaponry on his nation’s capital?” The commander wasn’t incredulous in his voice – it was a careful dig to find out any detail more that he could.

It worked. “With all due respect, _sir,_ ” Monarch spat back, her eyes narrowing, “throughout this entire conflict, the only scratches on any craft that I have flown have come from one of two things: a hint of lucky flak clipping my wings, or one of the people in Crimson squadron. If your records are as accurate as the logging software we use for payouts in Sicario, you’ll also know that I’m one of the few pilots to have ever shot down anyone in Crimson, and that I’ve done so enough times this conflict to make me a double ace there alone. There is one, and one person alone, who could leave my plane in a state like that, and he was over Presidia.”

“I have no doubts about that, miss. What I have doubts is that he was the one who fired the weapons that took out Presidia,” the commander countered, his tone as flat – colder, now, but monotone still – as he stared Monarch down still.

“…the exact details I remember are simple. I remember the call for the ceasefire, and everyone on the radio simultaneously excited and bitching. Then, I remember some _insane_ bastard laughing, and six missiles like the ones that hit Prospero diving below cloud cover as everyone else cried about missile lock. He was loud enough in his ranting that it likely got picked up by my black box, too. I just… look. I just want to see my wizzo, okay? She passed out a minute into the fight, I think. I just… I want to make sure she’s okay,” Monarch rambled, her voice giving way several times through her explanation. Tears began to well in her eyes as she gripped tightly onto her knees, trying to control herself from shaking.

“I see,” the old man muttered. With a deep breath, he began his own diatribe. “If I had any guess, the Federation isn’t long for this world – not after Prospero, and if people put together those dots too, they’ll realize Presidia is our fault too. Crimson One might have gone rogue, or that might have been ordered and he was too far gone to abort the flight. It wasn’t launched from here. This cell is, in a way, more for your safety. There are a number of people here who’d like the chance to take a swing – or, more likely, a shot – at you. For what you did to their family, to their friends. I’ve been through enough wars to know that this one was just that, but them? They’re still young. Naïve. Half of them are conscripts unaware of how awful the situation was before the war began. We’ve already got a few inbound CIF flights to negotiate for control of this base – if they know you’re here, I imagine they’ll want to harass you the same way I did.

“So, Monarch. I can keep you safe, like a butterfly in a habitat, and let you rest here. Or I can let you go, and whatever happens, happens. Don’t expect anyone else to defend you – not for another few hours, assuming the CIF wants you around still. And I’d imagine what remains of Sicario is even further behind than the CIF. What’ll it be?”

Safety was a luxury few could afford. To some, it was tempting.

Monarch’s reply was instantaneous, if quiet. “I… don’t care about my own safety. I want… to make sure that she’s okay. Please.”

“That’s what I thought,” the commander mumbled. “Alright, Monarch, but I want one more question before I let you go: why become a mercenary? Ever since Prospero, we’ve been able to connect the dots on most of your squadron, but you stood out, in that we couldn’t. No records of you ever attending flight school, no probable causes. Only a civilian piloting license before Sicario.”

It caught Monarch off guard. With a deep breath in, she tried to calm herself down, but she couldn’t help but to wince. “It was… the only way I’d be able to fly the planes I wanted to fly,” she weakly muttered, tapping her head. “Regulations said so. Wasn’t… physically or ‘mentally’ fit at the time.”

“Desperation, then. Not the money?”

She shook her head no. “No other option. It’s… why I owe Sicario so much.”

“I see.” With a sigh, the commander shook his head before he leaned forward, pulling out a key as he did so, and unlocked Monarch’s cuffs. “I would say I’m sorry for what the Federation did, and for how we treated you, but I’m not one for lying. We did what we thought was right, and it sounds like that might be what you thought you were doing too. It’s the only reason I’m letting you out of this cell alive. Don’t make me regret it.”

Through the hollow feeling stuck within Monarch’s gut, there was a small mixture of both surprise and hope bubbling through. Squeezing her hand tight closed, she just nodded, opening her mouth for a second as if to try to say something, and shutting it once she realized no words actually wanted to come out. It seemed to be enough for the commander, who escorted her out of the cell – and not a step more. “The medical ward is across the base from here. You can’t miss it. It’ll be about thirty minutes before anyone realizes that I let you out, kid,” he explained. “Make the best of it.”

Now, Monarch felt words come out. “I will.”

* * *

Normally, Monarch didn’t keep her head held high, but it felt like she was slouching even more as she tried to make herself as small a target as possible. It was like being a nervous teenager all over again, but the extra weight of worry bearing down on her mind was not something she was keen on. Her paces were as long and quick as she could manage; it’d started raining while she was still inside of that cell apparently – she hoped there wasn’t Cordium stuck in these clouds and causing it to rain down on her now – and so getting out of it as soon as possible would be just as nice as getting to the hospital as soon as possible. It was hot, humid, and gross; she almost preferred the jail cell.

No one stopped her on her way to the hospital on base – they all seemed to have better sense than her to be out in the rain – which made it easy enough to get there undisturbed. She expected problems if she just walked in the front door.

With a deep breath, Monarch pushed open the front door and just walked right in, only hesitating for a second as she approached the desk. “I… need to see Robin Kuo, callsign ‘Prez’. Is she still here?”

“Hm?” the guy at the desk mumbled, looking up from the computer. “Oh, the girl from the plane earlier,” he muttered, before looking up at Monarch. “I’m sorry, we’re not letting any one on base see her; it’s on the commander’s orders.”

“He… was the one who sent me here,” Monarch replied, closing her eyes and squeezing her hand.

“Do you have a written order? He didn’t radio anything in.”

Monarch’s breathing was forcibly slow and steady as she reopened her eyes. “I was the other one in the plane. Please,” she weakly pleaded, staring the nurse behind the desk dead in the eyes. “Please. I — I know you owe me nothing, but. Please.”

For a second, silence as they stared at each other. The nurse’s brow furled, as if trying to figure out both how Monarch could be here if she was supposed to be a prisoner and his own emotions to finding out that the woman in front of him was the mercenary that, if Monarch had to guess, likely killed a friend or two of his. “My sister was one of the workers at the facility you attacked in Yellowstone, y’know,” he flatly stated.

“Oh. I’m –”

“Save it. She’s not dead, unlike a lot of people who’ve met you,” the nurse interjected as he stood up. With a sigh, he walked around the desk and towards a door. “Just follow me. If you were only in this for the money, you wouldn’t be here right now, nor would she. I don’t care about the rest. I’m just a conscript with medical skills.”

Why did she even bother trying to talk.

Monarch just followed behind. The nurse led her to an elevator and pressed a button on the inside for the fourth floor. “When the doors open, head left. Fifth door on the right side of the hall.”

She was on autopilot from there on out. The quickness in her pace from before was gone now, however; each step that Monarch took had a tremble to it as she hesitated, her mind filling with more than just worry. It reached its boiling point outside of the door. Prez would be inside, if the nurse didn’t lie to her. She was still alive. That’s better than the worst of the fears in Monarch’s mind wanted her to believe, and even then, other fears shouted in her mind about the state that Prez would be in. Whatever state it was, it would be Monarch’s fault, wouldn’t it?

Monarch gently opened the door. She paused for a second before entering, still hesitating, still scared. With her eyes closed, she entered, breaching the barrier, and then she opened her eyes once more. She couldn’t bear to look at all of the screens and bags attached to Prez – hell, she couldn’t even bear to look at Prez in this state – but Monarch forced herself to. To witness what she’d caused. That raving bastard was wrong: the fall of the Federation, its losses in Cascadia, and his own destruction of Presidia wasn’t her fault, but the state that Robin Kuo was in was solely Monarch’s fault. She could have dumped flares, chaff, and anything else and ran. Maybe that demon of a machine that Crimson One was in could’ve kept up, but at some point, it would not have mattered. There would’ve been more friendlies, or just anyone else, or maybe they could’ve just hidden, or bailed out once they weren’t over the Cordium slag that Presidia was now.

There was a chair in the room, besides the bed Prez was sleeping in. At least, Monarch hoped it was just sleep she was in right now. It was late in the day, after all, perfectly normal time to be sleeping, but she couldn’t escape all of the fears in her mind that it was worse. What if they had to put Prez into a coma for some reason, Monarch worried.

What if she’d never wake up?

The chair wasn’t very comfortable to sit in, but Monarch tried to find what little pleasure she could in it. At least she wasn’t standing, or still stuck in her jet and in her flight suit, even if she really wished she at least had the latter right now.

She wasn’t aware how long she passed out for, but at some point, Monarch had curled up in the chair, holding her legs tight to her chest. A light wrapping at the door is what forced her back into reality, and she stared at it as whoever was there let themselves in – the one con of hospital doors, of course, was always the lack of real way to lock them.

It wasn’t a doctor, though; Monarch would recognize the stained look of that specific CIF uniform anywhere. Captain Joshua Griffiths. Stardust. The sole reason that they were still in Cascadia, which itself was possibly the sole reason that they weren’t hunted down by other mercenaries already. “They told me I’d find you here,” he flatly stated, before tilting his head out to the hall. With weary bones, Monarch stood up and followed him outside, only briefly noting the briefcase he was holding.

“The ceasefire held, even with the chaos in Presidia, if you were curious,” he explained quietly. “At least, we think it did, because we haven’t received reports from anywhere elsewhere of attacks like that. It’s a matter of… getting soldiers back under control.”

“No one wants to believe that a rogue soldier could do that,” Monarch softly muttered.

“Monarch, six Cordium warheads leveled Presidia. If you want to tell me that Crimson One did that himself, I’ll listen, but it’ll be hard to believe you.”

Monarch just sighed. “You’re here for the deal, Stardust. Lets just… get this over with, please.”

“Alright,” he replied, letting out a sigh of his own. “Cascadia thanks you for your service, Monarch, but is now on the search for Hitman team. In six months, the Cascadian military police will catch up to and execute all members of Hitman team, but as of now,” Stardust began to explain as he fiddled with the briefcase, “You’re no longer the person behind that tacname. The papers in here give a birth record and id for an Elizabeth Brandt, Jacklyn Paris, Quentin Dempsey, Cassie Huey, Marshal Ruddy, and… Mario McRlwain.”

With a thud, Stardust closed the briefcase, and offered it out to Monarch, who took it without a word. “We found Galaxy, Diplomat, and Comic, and we think we’ve found Kaiser rallying a band of troops out of the city, but we’re still investigating that last one. The former three are currently on their way here, as this is the closest, still-operational hospital. Thankfully, after the CIF retreat from Presidia, most… civilians had left the town, and the Feds shot anyone who tried to return.”

“…Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I can tell you’re worried,” Stardust softly said, “because I am too. But the fighting is over now. We’re all free to go.” Quietly, he turned, and began to leave. “This is the last time I’ll have to deal with you, I hope, but I want to say… thank you again, Monarch. The world owes you.”

Monarch didn’t reply, just turning back inside of the room, shutting the door, and walking back to her chair instead. Setting the briefcase besides it, she curled up once more, and she closed her eyes. She wasn’t used to all of this talking. It almost felt like, somehow, she’d become the leader of Sicario, something that she wouldn’t have wanted for even a moment. Even being the “leader” of Hitman squadron sometimes felt like too much.

At least her wingmen were alive.

With a deep breath, a groan escaped Monarch’s lips, her eyes reopening. The room’s clock, right above the door, read it just past two in the morning. The noise of jets touching down in the distant felt too familiar to pay attention to, but now, it was somehow also too noisy to tune out.

“I really hope you’re okay,” she softly muttered.

There came a noise from besides her, which her gaze immediately snapped to. Prez was shifting in her bed.

That, alone, was enough to draw a gasp from Monarch.

“Prez?”

More stirring. Then, weakly, Robin Kuo opened her eyes, slowly blinking as she got adjusted to the world around her. Turning as much as the various things would let her, she tried to smile at Monarch, but winced once she felt all the pain that she was in. With a tired and strained voice, she just mumbled, “Hey… Monarch. Will… you stay here? Please?”

“Yeah. I’ll… I’ll stay, Prez.”


	2. Chapter 2

With all of the things Prez was hooked up to, neither of them wanted to risk a hug right now, even if Prez could feel every part of her heart yearning for the heat of physical contact right now.

They settled for holding each other’s hands, at the very least. Prez was too tired to say too may words to Monarch right now – her entire body felt bruised and broken, and the stiffness in her neck was beyond uncomfortable right now. Every so often, she gave Monarch’s hand a light squeeze, as if to remind her that she was still here, still alive, still breathing, but slowly, she heard Monarch seemingly drift off to sleep in that uncomfortable-looking chair as she felt the desire to do the exact same tug at the back of her mind once more. Awkwardly, she tried to direct her gaze to the clock in the room, and when she did, she realized it was still far too early for any sane person to be awake – especially not someone in her condition. With a weak sigh, she willed her eyes closed and tried to do the same to let sleep wash over her.

She tried to do the same to let sleep wash over her.

She tried – ah, dammit, Prez realized, her mind wasn’t letting her sleep.

Every bone in her body was still aching, and she was suddenly aware of all of the tubes and needles stuck into her. It wasn’t comfortable, not at all, and suddenly she yearned to be Monarch, sitting their in her chair. Prez tried her best to not think about the state that she was in, trying to force her mind to be unaware of all of the medical equipment around her.

All of the medical equipment around her…

It was as if a grinding gear finally slipped back into working order in the transmission that was her mind as Prez realized that she’d almost died today.

She’d almost died today.

There weren’t many moments as Monarch’s backseater that she felt any more at danger than she did on the ground. Maybe it was Monarch’s quiet confidence in the air, maybe it was the combined chatter of Comic, Diplomat, and Galaxy that soothed her even as she felt her vocal cords begin to fry as she warned Monarch about every missile sent their way and every pilot on their tail, and only now was her mind letting her look behind the veil of how close to death Monarch likely took them every mission that they flew.

And now she was suffering the consequences of it.

They didn’t even take any hits, did they? The entire evening was a blur in Prez’s mind now. They’d been over Presidia; they’d won. Then…

Then…

Crimson One.

“Right,” Prez softly mumbled as she squeezed her eyes shut once more. She didn’t want to see the orange glow that she’d saw for just moments then before her memory slipped away as, she logically surmised, her consciousness did the same.  
  


Judging by the fact that the results of it had left her in a hospital bed, though, maybe they did take a hit? Prez had been shot once before, in her time with the Federation as a conscript, but it didn’t break her body armor; it felt similar to this. But if she’d been shot, surely she’d feel worse? Then…

She’d likely spent several minutes, at the very least, in various stages of conscious and unconscious.

She’d almost died from g-LOC.

From Monarch’s flying alone.

Her eyes shot back open as she stared at her pilot, who was still seemingly peacefully asleep. She couldn’t see the state that Monarch was in, but at least it was better that hers. Part of her was conflicted on that feeling, thinking that it didn’t feel right that Monarch got off seemingly unharmed now while she was… she was like this.

But part of her was just glad that her best friend was still alright, and still alive. On top of that, another part of her was just glad to still be alive, and with that, glad that they won.

Wait, if they won, why is Monarch in a Federation uniform? All of the sudden, a new set of doubts and confusion battered Prez’s mind. She was in a strange hospital, and the only familiar thing was now wearing the uniform of the people who’d spent the better part of the past year trying to kill them – and that they spent the better part of the year killing. Was Monarch a prisoner?

Did Monarch defect?

Deep breath in, count to four, deep breath out. Prez knew she was over thinking this, and in her current state, that wasn’t a good spot to be in. She let her eyes fall back closed. Monarch would explain this, if it was even worth explaining, and she was alive. That had to count for something. She wasn’t dead yet.

She wasn’t dead yet.

Everything else, Prez could put on pause. She just had to try to fall back asleep. She knew that willing herself to sleep wasn’t any more likely to actually result in her falling back asleep, but trying to sleep at least felt better on her tired mind than thinking did.

She’d gotten too confident, she realized as, finally, her consciousness was stolen from her once more; right now, she really wished that she had planned on getting shot down or crashing because she dearly missed the revolver that she would have normally been carrying.

* * *

A thud besides her is what woke her up in the morning as a mixture of metal and leather toppled onto the floor, jolting Prez awake. Monarch was no longer in the chair besides her, she realized, nor was Monarch still holding her hand. As she scanned the room, she realized why: Diplomat and Comic had shown up and were now standing in the doorway, and Monarch was making her way over to wrap them both up in a hug.

It was rare, seeing Monarch be this touchy, especially with people that weren’t her. Even though she never seemed _uncomfortable_ around the other two in her circle, it wasn’t often that Prez saw them like this; usually, it was just Diplomat and Comic seemingly trying to dance around the idea of how close to one-another they wanted to be at any moment, with Monarch – and her, when she was included – just being left to watch.

They were talking in hushed breaths, it seemed, leaving Prez clueless to what was being discussed except for the occasional louder murmur that only confused her more than it answered anything. What little she did understand was that Comic went down first, and Diplomat was the first to respond to her beacon; they spent the night together, and now Monarch was discussing her night. Her face was contorting through emotions, but even through her relief to see all three of them alive and well, she felt her face contort as a shock of pain seemed to slash down her spine.

She must’ve made a noise, because suddenly, all three sets of eyes turned to her. Monarch’s brown eyes bore a look of caring concern, Diplomat’s blue eyes seemed to be full of remembrance, and Comic’s green eyes just seemed understanding. Part of Prez wanted to stand right up and to slap all three of them; she didn’t deserve their worry. She was fine.

Part of Prez knew, though, that she wasn’t fine; at the very least, she wasn’t in the same condition that she left base in yesterday. Perhaps a little bit too flatly, Prez just said, “I’m right here.”

Monarch immediately broke away from Comic and Diplomat as well as broke eye contact with Prez, returning to the chair she’d “slept” in overnight in such an awkward slowness that it was obviously forced. She didn’t have to say a word for Prez to understand that she felt bad, but now she was left staring down Diplomat and Comic, and she just didn’t know what to say.

Like usual, Diplomat was doing a hard job at covering up his stress: “So… how are you, Prez?”

“Exhausted,” she flatly said, before forcing herself to chuckle and forcing herself to try and smile. “Who knew how bad g-LOC could be?”

Comic awkwardly chuckled back. “Well, there’s a reason you’re the only one who could stand to be Monarch’s backseater,” she tried to joke.

Prez let out another chuckle, a little bit more earnest. “Hey, saying ‘could’ implies past tense, I’ll be fine,” she said, the smile a little bit firmer on her face as she made herself believe her own words. “If I lived through it, I can live through it again, even if I’m rich enough to retire and disappear now.”

“If Kaiser lets us,” Diplomat joked with a hoarse laugh. “He seems adamant on staying in Cascadia for now, and from the sounds of it, is trying to worm his way into what remains of Cascadia’s military.”

“Wonderful,” Prez said, shaking her head. With a furled brow, however, she turned towards the noise that had woken her up: it was a briefcase, and it was a briefcase that she recognized from when that bastard Stardust had convinced the rest of Hitman to stay in Cascadia. The power to _actually_ disappear.

She still thought that was too much power for them. Her throat suddenly dry, she asked, “Is that why you two are here?”

“We’re here to make sure our friends are still alive, so I don’t have to frag Dip like I said I would,” Comic said with a surprising amount of snark. As she turned back to the door, she felt a hand on her shoulder; Comic had approached and was now gently resting one of her hands there. “And while Diplomat may be too scared to say it –”

“Hey!” he interjected.

“— we’re both very glad that you’re okay, Prez. After all, a deal to ensure our survival only works if we all survived, doesn’t it?”

Prez couldn’t help but to roll her eyes, even if she felt some tears slip out from her eyes. “It’s weird seeing you be so sweet, Comic. It’s almost scarier than seeing you truly drunk.”

Comic snorted and leaned back against the wall, removing her hand and looking back to Dip. “I think we can deal with all of that later. I think we’ll leave you two _lovebirds_ alone,” she teased, tugging on Dip’s arm and dragging him out of the room.

It was only after Prez’s mind was done questioning the fact that it was _Comic_ calling her and Monarch lovebirds, given how touchy and close the two of them had always been, that she felt a blush rise to her face. Partially out of frustration, and partially out of the fact that she wasn’t expecting to be called out on her emotions like that. She felt it fade, however, as she felt Monarch’s hand wrap around her right hand once more. Her voice effortlessly slipped back into her normal tone of reassurance, and this time, she managed to not wince as she felt a small dart of pain at the base of her neck. “I’m alright, Monarch. Promise,” she murmured.

“I can… tell you’re hurting,” Monarch weakly replied, giving Prez’s hand a gentle squeeze.

With a sigh, Prez nodded. “I am hurting, Monarch,” she confirmed, before adding in a bit lighter of a tone, “but I have to imagine Crimson One’s hurting more.”

Her joke drew a chuckle out of Monarch, but it was hollow. “I’m… sorry,” was all the pilot managed to muster after a small moment.

“The option was dead or… this, Monarch. You made the right call,” Prez reassured, but Monarch didn’t seem to fully believe it.

She didn’t open her mouth to reply, though, either.

“Hey, c’mere real quick Monarch,” Prez asked, which got Monarch to finally look at her again. Then, a confused look on her face, she leaned in, and Prez gave Monarch a small kiss on her forehead. “You always treat me just right, Monarch, believe me, and even after yesterday, there’s no where else I would have wanted to have been besides in the backseat.”

That seemed to do the trick, as a small smile finally crested on Monarch’s face. At first, she just nodded, but Prez felt her hand be let go. Then, she felt the back of Monarch’s hand – which, given all the years and all of the labor, had no right to be as soft was it was – graze across her cheek, before Monarch leaned in herself and gave Prez a kiss of her own, right on her forehead.

* * *

**_***Six months later…***_ **

“Oh goddammit, of course he had to get his grubby hands all over Kaiser’s work!” the man formerly known as Peter “Diplomat” Kennedy shouted at the TV. On screen was a resolution passed by a senator bearing the same last name, finally formalizing the new Cascadian Foreign Legion. Prez didn’t recognize him but could see the resemblance to Di—Quentin. Even after six months, she was still struggling with adjusting to the new names, and to adjusting to their new identities. And to her new life, even if it was temporary.

Two minutes, the doctors had told her. It’s how long her brain, based off of their estimates, went without oxygen. Even the lowest quality of Federation medicine, she knew, was still leagues beyond anything pre-calamity, but even then, that didn’t completely undue the damage. Until she recovered to the level she was at before – and who knew if that would even happen – she, as well as Monarch, planned on staying put, an ocean away, right in the heart of the falling-apart Federation.

At least her family was closer now, she thought to herself, because it was nice being able to see them more often. It helped, too, that Quentin and Jacklyn were visiting as Kaiser was still busy in Cascadia sorting things out.

…Jacklyn.

“Hey Comic, did you ever notice that your new name has the same ending as your old one did?” Prez asked in a quiet tone, only vaguely audible over the TV. Jacklyn, to her credit at least, turned to Prez and smiled.

“I didn’t, _Cassie,”_ it was clear to Prez that Jacklyn was deliberately using her name, “but that’s a rather interesting thing to notice.”

It was still something that she was getting used to. Hearing Cassie instead of Robin or Prez. It still didn’t feel right to her, if she was being honest with herself, but she’d get used to it. The news on the TV had changed now, talking about how Cascadia had tracked down and, finally, killed the members of the former Hitman team of Sicario, who’d gone AWOL ever since the destruction of Presidia. It was a fabricated lie, of course, but one that meant that Cascadia got to profit even more off of the bounties that the Federation had set for them. She’d call it ironic, but Cassie doubted if that was the correct meaning of the word. In all of the weird jobs that she’s worked, knowing the definition of irony wasn’t something she’d needed, which sometimes still surprised her.

Monarch shifting behind her caused her to fall onto her back as the pilot stood up, as she’d been using her as a support for most of the time that they’d spent lounging here. For a second, Cassie laid there, sinking into the soft cushion as much as she could, before she became aware of the hand in her face – a hand which she took, tugging at it with all of her might to bring herself upright. Not a second after she was on her feet, however, and another burst of the slashing pain went right down her back once more, almost causing her to topple into Monarch, but the ever-so-slightly-taller woman managed to keep her upright.

“Thanks, Elly,” Cassie mumbled softly, which just got a weak chuckle back as the woman just nodded. It seemed that Jacklyn and Quentin got the same hint, because they stood upright as well.

“Same time tomorrow?” Diplomat offered, and both Prez and Monarch nodded.

“May as well make the most of the few weeks before Kaiser calls us back,” Comic said, managing to get a small laugh out of all of them before the two of them shuffled out.

Then, it was just her and Monarch. Elly. Elizabeth Brandt. It was hard keeping all the names straight, especially after calling Quentin and Jacklyn exclusively by either their tacnames for a year and, before that, a mixture of those tacnames and their old names for however long. At least she was able to keep Monarch’s clear in her mind. She was Elly.

It helped, too, that Elizabeth was the name that Monarch had wanted to choose so long ago. As the door clicked shut behind the other two lovebirds, Cassie slid a little bit closer to Elly, just trying to absorb some of the excess heat. The apartment they were renting was small, and had shitty heating that she just hadn’t had the energy to fix yet.

“Their names are… still difficult, aren’t they?” Elly quietly muttered, slowly drifting an arm around Cassie’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” she admitted even more quietly, turning her head into Monarch’s side. Gently, she felt Monarch’s hand rub up and down her arm, trying to be comforting, but it was still as awkward as Elly usually was.

“Do you… want to tell the doctors about it?” Elly quietly proposed.

“If it doesn’t clear up after a few more days with them, I will,” Cassie firmly said. “Let’s just head down. If I ever want to fly in your back seat again, I still have to get a little bit stronger.”

“Yeah,” Elly agreed. Slowly, her arm unwound from holding Prez close, and drifted to taking her hand instead.

“I’ll lead the way,” Prez stated, her tone firming up with a small degree of her usual confidence. It was the smallest amount of control that she could take over her current situation, but it’s what mattered. She started to walk, but heard a gasp come from Monarch behind her as the pilot remembered something. “What’s up?” she quickly asked.

“We still haven’t met your family. Well, I know… you’ve been to see them, I meant…”

“You and the other two,” Cassie finished.

“Yeah.”

With a deep breath in Cassie paused. “I’m still… afraid it’ll link everything together, Elly. I… may not have liked the offer, and getting rid of our old identities, but that doesn’t mean that I want to waste this chance, either.” As she turned back to face Monarch, Prez noticed the small frown forming on her face – a frown she was likely mirroring, if she had to guess. With a sigh and a shake of her head, Cassie offered up a concession: “Next week. Before they leave.”

Elly just nodded, but a smile was soft on her face. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Of course,” Cassie replied. Gently, Prez broke her hand out from Monarch’s, and instead placed Monarch’s face between both of her hands instead. “And… thank you. I know I’ve been… too stubborn to ask for help sometimes, but—”

This time, it was Elly who managed to fluster the woman who used to be Robin Kuo with a kiss. It was gentle and careful, as Monarch tended to be – it was hard to believe, sometimes, that this was the same woman who made planes dance as if they were a slot car on a three-dimensional rail – but it was filled with the same sense of passion that Prez had once left Elly stunned with.

“Sheesh, Monarch,” Cassie softly mumbled once they finally broke away, slouching a bit to duck under Monarch’s chin and rest against her neck, “at least take a girl out to dinner first.”

“We… have though,” Elly confusedly replied.

Cassie just shook her head. “Don’t overthink it, just shut up for a second.”

Gently, Elly asked, “Do you… want to stay like this for a bit?”

With a weak murmur, Prez replied, “We do still have an hour before we absolutely need to leave if I can find us a good route.”

“So we can stay?”

With a small smile, an almost imperceptible shake of her head, and a slight chuckle, Cassie just said, "Sure."


End file.
